When the Going Gets Rough You Can Lean on Me
by Wofl
Summary: Dean's having a rotten day. Luckily, he has Sam to help make it better. Wincest. Mature. hc, angst, fluff, sap, hurt!dean


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_-Seattle, Washington-_

It's going to be One of Those Days, Dean can tell.

By the time he wakes up, Sam's already departed, in his stead, a note informing Dean that he's gone out for coffee and that he's gotten a lead on their case so it would be nice if Dean could get his sorry ass in gear sometime in the near future, preferably before noon.

Dean groans, crumples the note in one fist, and considers just going back to sleep, if only to spite Sam and his stupid, exuberantly snarky note. God, he can practically hear the kid bitching if he closes his eyes and thinks about it. The only reason he doesn't is because they've been working on this case for the past three days straight without a lead and honestly, if Sam's managed to find the hay in the needle stack, Dean's got to see it for himself.

So he drags himself from his bed and stumbles to the bathroom only to step directly in a puddle of toilet water that's overflowed from the backed-up, water-stained grubby-as-hell toilet and as if that's not disgusting and bad enough, there's no hot water left when he climbs into the shower. That's the exact moment when Dean knows that One of Those Days has crept up on him and now has him by the balls.

And he supposes he doesn't really have a choice but let it drag him where it will, so he curses and endures the bitter cold of the water, scrubs himself clean as quickly as is humanly possible, and climbs out of the grungy tub all in roughly two and a half minutes.

Unfortunately, for Dean, the day has just begun and is nowhere near finished being terrible. So naturally, despite his having cleaned up the disgusting toilet water with an old towel, there is now a new puddle on the floor. This one has come from the shower, which, of course, has to leak. Sadly, Dean fails to notice its presence until he's stepped in it, and by that time, it's too late.

He ends up on his ass and manages to crack his skull against the counter on the way down. He swears, copiously, and if it isn't completely embarrassing enough, it seems Sam has returned in time to hear his blunder. Dean winces and rubs at the back of his skull, trying his best to ignore the persistent knocking on the door and Sam's worried tone in favor of checking to see if he's bleeding or not.

His hand comes away clean, so he assumes he's relatively okay, but he's still pissed at the world, and Sam's knocking is certainly not helping. He wraps a towel around his waist and yanks open the door.

_What the hell, Dean?_ Sam is asking and Dean is tempted to just ignore him, but that would only make things more difficult in the long run, considering he has to, y'know, live with Sam. So he sighs and says, "I slipped and fell," as a way of explanation.

"By the way," he adds, as he fishes out a clean pair of jeans and pulls them on, "the toilet's fucked up, so you'll have to piss outside and nice job on stealing all the hot water."

He supposes it's snarky of him, but it gives him some outlet to make the terrible day seem just a little bit better, so he doesn't feel too guilty for ragging on Sam. God knows the younger nagged him enough.

"Dean," Sam says, brow furrowing the way it does when Sam is thinking about something particularly hard. "I showered last night."

Now that Sam mentions it, Dean does vaguely remember Sam showering the night before, but being drunk tends to make you forget things like that. And Dean had certainly been drunk last night. After all, it wasn't like there was anything better to do, they definitely weren't getting anywhere on this case.

Speaking of which…

"Hey," Dean says suddenly, his head snapping up, "you said you got a lead on the case?"

"Yeah," Sam replies, "but I need to look some stuff up. Finish getting dressed and we'll go to the library."

Dean grunts in response, pulls a clean t-shirt over his head, and then shrugs on his jacket. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, digging for the keys to the impala. His pockets come up empty and Dean scowls, almost certain he'd left them there last night. But, eh, he's been wrong before, and it's already been made obvious that he shouldn't trust his memories of last night. He glances around the hotel room in search of the renegade keys, shuffles through the books and papers on the desk, comes up with nothing.

"Dude, have you seen my keys?" Dean moves to the bedside table and pulls open the drawer, digging through it. Nothing. Fuck.

He snarls to himself, crosses the room in three strides, and begins tearing apart his duffle bag. Still nothing. He turns on the bed, has it already halfway torn apart before he realizes Sam, formerly trying to get his attention, has started to laugh.

Dean looks up, murder in his eyes. "Dude, I swear," he starts, and Sam holds up his hands in a gesture meant to be placating, but Dean can see the key ring looped around one finger and it makes him grind his teeth.

"I went for coffee, remember?" Sam asks, holding out the keys. Dean snatches them more violently than is necessary, but doesn't think the action is uncalled for. The impala is his baby, and he'd really been afraid he'd lost the keys for a minute. God, wouldn't that make his day just _perfect_.

Dean curses for what is neither the first nor the last time that day. It seems the day is just getting warmed up. He gazes down at the impala's depressingly flat tire forlornly, lamenting the cruel treatment of his poor baby before turning on the only likely culprit.

"You gave her a flat?!" Only with a supreme amount of effort does he keep himself from screaming senselessly and Sam has that same I'm-concentrating-very-hard look that seems to be popular today.

"Wasn't me, Dean," Sam tells him flatly, and Dean snorts in response, not believing it for an instant. He opens his mouth to inform Sam that he's a cock-sucking liar, but Sam beats him to the punch.

"Look," he says, stooping down to inspect the flattened tire more thoroughly. Dean closes his mouth and gives his brother the benefit of the doubt, leaning over so he can see what Sam is pointing out to him. Sam prods his finger down into a hole in the thick rubber.

"Dean, that's from a knife." Sam turns to look up at his brother who can do nothing but stare, slack jawed.

"What the fuck? Seriously. This is turning into the worst day ever." Dean snarls, kicking the flat tire with one booted foot. He whirls and stalks to the back of his car, throwing open the trunk and digging down to the bottom to retrieve the spare. "Who the fuck would slash my tire? Something's up."

It takes the better part of twenty minutes for Dean to jack up the car and change the tire, and by the time he's done, he's greasy and damp and severely unimpressed. He stashes the flat in the trunk and slides into the driver's seat, muttering nonsense under his breath.

He's even grumpier an hour later. He's flipping through another book filled with gobbledygook, eyes glazed over and if he weren't so thoroughly irritated, he'd probably be asleep. Sam still hasn't told him what the hell is going on, or even what he's supposed to be looking for, but that's not surprising. Sam rarely asks him for help while researching. It usually just slows him down and Dean just gets frustrated.

He thinks about sneaking out to hit on the cute waitress he can see through the window of the coffee house next door, but before he can make up his mind, Sam appears from behind whatever bookshelf he's been molesting and drops enough books and papers to make a small forest. Dean folds his arms and glances up at Sam, quirking an eyebrow at the mess.

"Okay. This is what I've got." Sam begins, pushing the papers into some semblance of order. "In the past six months, there have been three deaths, six household accidents, two house fires, five hospitalizations, and eight car crashes, all in the same section of the city. I'm sure there's more, but that's all I could dig up for now."

"Yeah, yeah, I know all that. That's why we came in the first place, remember?" Dean snarks, but begins pawing through the papers. Obituaries, newspaper clippings, hospital records and autopsy reports; Dean glanced at them all, impressed. Sam must have done a lot of digging to pick out the patterns. "So what's it mean? What the hell is causing it?"

"Well, remember when we went asking around?" Sam asks, catching Dean's eye. "I didn't realize it at first, but there was something that everyone we talked to had in common."

"And what's that?"

"They were all successful," Sam states. "They were doctors, lawyers, businessmen, CEOs, store owners. So I did some digging." Sam shuffles through the pile, pulls out a paper clipped bundle of newspaper articles. "Before Seattle, there was a string of bad luck in a concentrated area of Portland, Oregon, and before that, some in Sacramento. "

The pieces begin to fall into place, and Dean thinks that maybe his own bad luck isn't so coincidental. "Lemme guess, more rich folk?" Dean asks, glancing through the packet of papers. But if that's true, why the hell is Dean having bad luck? He's anything but rich. "How do you know it has to do with them being successful?"

"I was getting to that," Sam says wryly. "The bad luck always seems to have something to do with their occupation. Doctors get sick, or die of illnesses. Business owners get robbed, or their stores burn down, lawyers crash their cars and are blamed for the accidents."

"Okay. So whatever we're dealing with has a serious infatuation with irony." Dean snorts, scratching his head.

"Not quite." Sam says, and pushes the papers aside, going for the books. "More like extreme jealousy."

He flips open a particularly heavy and musty tome, rifling through the pages until he finds the one he wants and pushes it towards Dean. Of course Sam's going to make him read instead of just telling him what the fuck is going on. Dean rolls his eyes, but leans forward reading what Sam's pointed out to him before laughing out loud.

"Oh come on Sam," Dean looks across the table at Sam's deadpan face. "You've got to be kidding me. This isn't even in Dad's notebook, and we've never seen any proof that it's real."

"Do you have a better explanation?" Sam snaps. "Look, the evil eye is referenced in countless cultures and religions. It causes bad luck, derives from extreme jealousy, and usually the person doesn't even know they're doing it. It makes sense."

"Okay. Fine. How do we find out who it is?" Dean asks, groaning and dropping his head into his hands. He has a headache forming and from the feel of it, a bad one. Exactly what he needs at the moment, just peachy.

"Well, we ask around some more, find out where these people were before their bad luck started." Sam scoops up his research, stacking it into a neat pile and shoving it into his bag. "Once we find that out, it shouldn't be hard to track the person down."

"Yeah, then what? It's just a person, right? We can't exactly waste 'em." Dean stands to leave, perhaps a little too quickly, because suddenly the room is a little blurry, and his head feels light, dizziness washing over him. He leans against the table, one hand finding its way to his swimming head.

"Dean?" Sam asks, going into full-on clingy mode and suddenly, not only is he dizzy, but he's being crowded and he can't breath. He coughs, feeling his lungs ache as he does, and pushes at Sam.

"I'm fine, man, back off," he insists, with a snarl. "Just have a headache, that's all."

Sam looks doubtful, but Dean gives him his best _shut up or I'll kick your ass _ glare and Sam backs off. They leave the library and Dean makes it to the Impala without further incident, but he's pretty sure his lungs aren't supposed to feel like they're underwater. He certainly doesn't feel like driving, so he tosses the keys to Sam. "Drive home, Geekboy," he instructs, and slides into the passenger seat.

Sam gives him another one of those worried puppy dog looks and says _Dean _ in that tone that Dean hates, but he can't bring himself to care. He feels like crap, all of a sudden, and he ignores his brother, tilting his head back against the seat and closing his eyes.

God, it's hard to breathe. He coughs again, harder this time and decides that a nap is in order the instant he gets back to the motel.

The next thing Dean knows is a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. He grunts, trying to push the hand away. He's _tired_, dammit, he wants to sleep. Sam's voice permeates Dean's awareness, high and worried, saying, "Wake the fuck up, Dean!"

"Wha'?" Dean sighs, heaves open his eyes and feels like it's the most difficult thing he's ever done. He shivers and tries to ignore the pain in his chest. "We there already?"

"Dean, you're burning up." Sam says, pressing a hand against Dean's forehead. Dean bats his hand away and sits up straighter, trying to seem like he isn't as sick as he feels.

"Dean, don't even," Sam growls, seeing through Dean's act before he's even tried it. "Just get the fuck out of the car and get inside and get to bed. Now."

Well, someone is touchy, Dean thinks, but decides not to argue. It's not horrible advice, after all. Sam's instructions are easier said than done, however, and in the end, despite Dean's complaints about indignity, Sam has to help him stumble into the motel room and over to the bed. He coughs the entire way, and by the time he's seated on the bed, there is a huge ball of phlegm nestled in the palm of his hand.

"Gross," he says, wiping the yellowish mucus on his jeans. "Helluva cold I caught."

"Dean," Sam says, eying him darkly, "you're feverish, tired, coughing, and that crap you wiped on your jeans – that's disgusting, by the way – was bright yellow."

"Ugh, my chest hurts too." Dean adds, unsure of where Sam's going with this list, but it might as well be complete if he's going to make it. Before Sam can open his mouth and blah-blah anymore, however Dean's eyes grow wide and he claps his hand over his mouth. "And I think I'm gonna throw up."

The words come out muffled, but still decipherable. Sam starts forward and latches on to Dean's arm as if to help him up, but Dean shoves him away and bolts for the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him. He drops to his knees in from of the toilet and closes his eyes against the sudden swell of nausea. He stays there for a few minutes, Sam's incessant pounding on the door reminding him of this morning when this whole disaster started.

Dammit, he's not rich _or _ successful, why the hell is he having bad luck? And, Dean realizes with a lurch, whatever he has could be serious. All the other people they'd dug up that had gotten sick had ended up in the hospital, or worse, dead. Well, at least the ones they knew about. But Dean's sure Sam has already thought of that. No wonder he's pounding on the door so fucking hard.

Another moment passes and his nausea dissipates without incident, and he figures it's safe to go back to bed. He opens the door and stares blankly at Sam, who grabs on to him and hauls him back to the bed. Dean doesn't protest or argue, just lies down and slings an arm over his eyes to block out the harsh fluorescent of the overhead light.

"Dean," Sam says, and the tone alone is enough to make Dean crack open an eye. The look on Sam's face makes Dean's stomach sink, cause Sam never looks that worried unless he thinks things are really bad. "All those symptoms," Sam runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "I think you have pneumonia."

"Well, aren't I lucky?" Dean mutters, unable to curb his sarcasm, even when he's feeling like three day old road kill.

"At least there's one good thing about this." Sam says, pulling the blankets up over his brother. Dean shivers and curls into himself, pulling the fabric closer to himself. "If you're having all this bad luck, they must have got you too. All we have to do is retrace our steps from yesterday and we'll be able to find our culprit."

"Yeah, well, you do that," Dean remarks, unenthusiastically. "I'm going to sleep."

And if he isn't quite asleep a few minutes later when Sam perches on the side of the bed and runs his fingers through Dean's hair, well, Dean pretends that he is. After all, it might just be the only good thing to happen to him that day.

The coughing is worse now. His lungs hurt, his throat burns; God, he's miserable – has been for the last forty-eight hours. But at least his fever is gone, he can be thankful for that. And he hasn't felt anymore nausea; that's another improvement. But the coughing, the coughing is so much worse. Sometimes it feels like he can't even breathe and those are the worst times because he feels so weak and helpless. Then Sam is right there, a hand on his back and God, if he says_ it's okay_ one more time, Dean thinks he's going to have to punch him, except he's not sure he has the energy. So he lets Sam get away with it. For now.

Sam _is _beginning to get on his nerves though. He keeps _hovering _and every time Dean tries to get up, Sam's all over him, bossing him around, pushing him back down. Jesus, all he wants is to be allowed to take a fucking piss without being bothered.

Dean watches his brother from the corner of his eye, making a show of flipping through the channels on the television, even though he has no interest in watching anything. Sam is hunched over his computer, brow furrowed in concentration as he researches one thing or another. Dean isn't really interested in what Sam's doing, it's all Geek to him anyways. What his _is_ interested in is waiting for Sam to turn his back to him so Dean can get up without being harassed.

If he can just make it to the bathroom without Sam noticing, he can lock the door and he'll be able to shower in peace. And maybe, if he's lucky, the hot water will clear his lungs a bit.

He never gets his chance to sneak away. He has tried it too many times already today for Sam to fall for it again. Instead, he reverts to Plan B, a page stolen right out of Sam's book. He bitches and whines – feels like a girl doing it- but keeps it up, imploring Sam to entertain him, complains about how miserable he is. Whatever he can come up with to complain about or ask for, he does. For the next half hour, he pesters Sam until the younger Winchester is finally fed up enough to fist both his huge hands in his hair and snap at him to _go take a fucking shower or something, Christ, Dean, gimme a damn break.  
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"Whatever you say, man," Dean says, affecting a wounded tone. He heaves himself out of the bed and manages not to smirk until he's closed and locked the bathroom door. He'll pay for it later, he's sure. Knowing Sam, he'll have about a pound of guilt for yelling at a sick person and then Dean will have to sit through his apologies and his irrepressible need to Talk About Everything, but it was worth it. For the privilege of being able to spent more than five minutes alone in the bathroom without Sam pounding on the door, it's a price he's willing to pay.

It seems he's judged his brother wrong. Dean emerges from the bathroom a half an hour later, trailing great billows of steam that curl and stretch out into the main room to find that he has been left alone again. Sam's left him another note.

_Dean, I think I got a lead on this evil eye thing. I'll be back in a couple hours. Stay in bed and take the medicine on the night table. Try to get some rest. Sorry I snapped at you._

_-Sam_

Well, isn't that cute? Dean eyes the small collection of aspirin and some unidentifiable horse-pill with suspicion, but concedes that Sam knows what he's doing and takes the pills. He's too tired to bother with clothes, just climbs into his bed naked and curls up, letting the soft background noise of the television and the wheezing of his own lungs lull him to sleep.

There's someone at the door.

Logic says it's Sam, but instinct and a lifetime of worst-case scenarios being the most likely has trained him beyond the benefit of the doubt. He rolls over, quickly, quietly, ignoring his lungs as they protest the extra pressure and he reaches surreptitiously for the knife tucked underneath his pillow as the door swings open with a slight squeak.

Dean cracks an eye, trains it on the door as best he can without giving away the fact that he's awake. When the figure shuts and locks the door behind him, Dean relaxes, knowing no assailant would bother with such a thing.

"Dean, you awake?" Sam asks, quietly, hesitantly, not wanting to wake Dean if he is sleeping. He steps further into the room and shrugs off his jacket, abandoning it on the chair near the desk.

"Yeah, I'm up," Dean tries to say, but his throat is clogged with God-knows-how-much mucus and it comes out more like _yaamup_. He coughs a few times and rolls back over, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

And Sam is right there with a smile and a _hey_ and he's pushing a glass of water into Dean's hand, and Dean can't help but be grateful. Because, even though he'll never admit it to Sam if he can help it, he doesn't know what he'd do without his little brother.

"So what did you find out?" Dean ventures when he no longer feels like there's a jellyfish caught in his throat. Sam looks excited, that glimmer in his eye that he only gets when he's exceptionally proud of himself, or when he knows something that Dean doesn't. But it seems he's not quite ready to let Dean in on the secret quite yet, because he ignores Dean's question, choosing instead to quirk an eyebrow at Dean, looking him up and down.

"Dude," he says, after a silence that almost-but-doesn't-quite stretch towards uncomfortable and awkward, "where are your clothes?"

Dean cracks a grin and makes a show of running a hand through his hair. "Don't you know? I'm too sexy for my shirt."

Sam rolls his eyes, asking, "Right Said Fred? Really Dean?"

"And what does it say about you, that you know exactly what I'm talking about?" Dean retorts, not batting an eyelash. He wishes they could just cut through the banter and get to what they both know is coming, but that banter is their safeguard. The back-and-forth is their way of making sure that things don't get too weird between them; their assurance that no matter what, they'll still be brothers over everything else.

"It says I hang around with you too much." Sam says, eyes half lidded. Sometime, during their argument, he's inched closer to Dean and one of his hands has found it's way beneath the sheets and is creeping along Dean's thigh. It's always the same at first, touches slow and hesitant; in themselves, a question of permission. As if Sam doesn't already know it's alright; as if he doesn't know that Dean craves that touch, needs it as much as he needs air.

He leans forward, catches hold of Sam's shirt and pulls him down onto the bed beside him. Sam complies, letting Dean direct him as he wishes, but when Dean tries to wrestle Sam's shirt off, Sam grabs his wrist, stilling his efforts.

"Dean," he says importantly, making sure to catch his brother's eyes. "You sure you're up for this?"

Dean snorts. The worry his brother exhumes would almost be cute if it wasn't so obsessively obnoxious. Sam should know by now that it would take more than some lousy bout of pneumonia to deter Dean's sex drive and he tells Sam as much, wrenching his hands out of Sam's grasp to work, once again, at the pesky fabric that is blocking Sam's body from his view.

"Just don't...uh…kiss me," Dean insists. On top of his mouth temporarily being the world's biggest phlegm farm, he can't really remember the last time he brushed his teeth. Kissing is not really on the top of his list of _Things That Are Sexy _right now and he's sure Sam would agree. "Don't want you getting sick, right?"

"Pneumonia isn't exactly contagious, Dean. It's caused by an immunity deficiency," Sam says, and Dean is tempted to roll his eyes at the fact that Sam is never _not _ in total geek mode. Dean eyes his brother, notes that he looks a bit off put. "But your mouth _is _ probably pretty gross," the younger acquiesces at last.

"There are other places you could put your mouth," Dean retorts with a grin and a pointed look. Sam accuses him of being a pervert, but doesn't veto the idea. Dean takes that as an assurance that there's a ninety percent chance that he'll get blown in the near future.

Somewhere along the line, Sam has shed the rest of his clothes, and it only takes one swift motion to sweep back the covers to reveal Dean's naked body, his already hard cock resting against his belly. Suddenly, Sam's hands are everywhere. They flit across Dean's chest and stomach, taking their time to explore, but drifting ever southward. Dean returns the favor, his hands roaming across the planes of Sam's flesh as if in an attempt to commit every inch to memory.

And then, Sam ducks his head and takes Dean's cock into his mouth. Dean gasps and lets his eyes fall closed. For a moment, he forgets that he is sick, endorphins blocking out even the constant pain of breathing and he just focuses on the way Sam's tongue moves across searing flesh.

"Fuck," he groans, and bites his lip. Sam bobs his head, taking as much of Dean's cock into his mouth as he can before drawing back and releasing with a slick pop. The younger tilts his head, drawing a broad stripe across the base of Dean's cock. He dips again, mouthing Dean's balls briefly before working his way back up towards the head, eventually drawing the tip back into the warm heat of his mouth.

Sam's hands are on Dean's hips, and Dean's own hands are restless, drifting across Sam's forearms, exploring the soft, scarred skin and the hard muscles beneath. He lets his touches continue their trek, relocating to Sam's hair nest, fingers sifting through the strands. They're not coarse, but they can't be classified as silky either. It's right there in some unclassified median, and Dean knows he wouldn't have it any other way. Unless, of course, it meant Sam would finally get a damn haircut.

All this; the heat, and the wet, and the bobbing head between his thighs, and the grip on his hips - it's all _Sam. _ And, God, no chick he's ever been with has made him feel the way his baby brother does. He's wrestled for so long with _sick _and _wrong _ and it took him a while, but he's finally found something akin to peace. He knows that it's immoral, but he also knows that he loves Sam. And he knows that Sam loves him, and that neither of them would consent if all they got from it was a cheap fuck and a fast orgasm. No sex is worth poisoning the healthiest relationship Dean has ever had.

Which is why it's more than that, they both know. It's something boundless and fierce, based on trust. It runs deep, Dean knows; so deep that he can't even begin to figure out when he stopped loving Sam and started _loving _ Sam. And while his dick is in Sam's mouth, his tongue moving in ways that are positively sinful, he's pretty sure it's rather fucking inconsequential.

Another moment, and Dean's inner monologue falls away completely. He is something primal and mindless, fingers tightening in Sam's hair. He would move his hips if he could, blocked only by Sam's strong grip on his hips and a moan of both frustration and pleasure slips past his lips.

He's not sure how much more he can take. He's wound so tightly; eyes screwed shut, muscles trembling, and perspiration standing out on his skin. His orgasm is approaching fast, speeding towards him like an unstoppable train wreck. Not that he'd actually want to stop it.

It's only a matter of moments – maybe seconds, Dean can't really be sure - before Sam's clever tongue is wrenching breathy sounds from his lips and Dean tips over the edge, losing himself to the mindless pleasure of orgasm. He comes in Sam's mouth, watches in a muted haze as Sam wipes the last remnants of sticky white residue from the corner of his mouth and licks his fingers clean.

Sam then moves up, stretches his body out and aligns it with Dean's. He wraps his arms around Dean's neck and with what little bit of his brain that remains, Dean realizes that his brother hasn't come yet. His hand finds Sam's cock, hard and leaking, and seeks to amend that.

Sam whimpers, when Dean's hand begins to move, and presses his face into the crook of Dean's neck. His strokes are short and quick, perhaps a bit rougher than they need to be, but Sam's always had a bit of a masochistic streak. It only takes a moment or two before Sam comes hard, jack-knifing briefly before slumping, boneless, against Dean.

Unlike Sam, Dean doesn't exactly find the taste of semen appealing, so he chooses to wipe his hand on the sheets instead. When it is clean, reaches up to ruffle Sam's hair fondly. Sam just murmurs a small happy noise and clings tighter. And honestly? Dean can't really bring himself to mind.

"You know, you never did tell me what you found out."

Several minutes have trickled away like so much sand in the hourglass and neither of them have managed to gather the will or the energy to move. They are still lying in the bed, limbs entwined in some haphazard, pick-up-sticks pile of flesh and bone. Dean is watching Sam's chest rise and fall, one hand planted just over his brother's heart and he can hear the steady thrum of it as it pounds out a slow even pace.

It's the sound of his own breath as it wheezes its way from his lungs that prompts him to speak; anything to drown out how pathetic and winded he sounds. After such an exertion of energy, he feels dog-tired and he hates it. He may be getting better, but it's not fast enough. The sooner they solve this case and get the hell out of here, the better. Cabin fever is already starting to creep up on him like an itching madness. He wants to feel the road slipping away beneath the impala's tires, his foot heavy on the gas pedal as he propels them towards whatever awaited them beyond the horizon. He wants to i move /i again, dammit.

Sam stirs a bit and makes a sleepy inquiry that Dean can feel as it sinks into his skin; a quiet vibration against his collarbone, where Sam has his face buried. Undoubtedly, he's been dozing, content to know that his brother is on his way to a full recovery. Dean's lips quirk into some semblance of a smile and he repeats his words.

"So you wanna clue me in or what?"

Sam shifts and Dean laments the compromise – comfort for information - but lets Sam slip away. He doesn't go far, simply lifts his head and moves his arm, raising it to scrub at his eyes with the back of his hand. "You're either going to laugh or be pissed when I tell you," Sam says, snuggling back against Dean again before tilting his head just enough that Dean can see his face, a tired half-grin commanding his mouth.

"Shut up and spill," Dean demands. His hand - the one that's smooshed beneath Sam's warm weight - finds the soft, vulnerable skin of his brother's stomach and pinches. Sam jumps, aborting a strange noise of surprise and scowls at Dean. He smirks, petting Sam's side, almost apologetically and mutters, "bitch."

"Okay, jerk," Sam says with a pout. "I was getting to it."

"Still not there," Dean notes.

Sam doesn't rise to his bait, just snorts derisively before beginning his explanation. "Do you remember a certain bar we visited a few days ago?"

"The one where the entire bar had beer caps lacquered to it? It was tacky as shit. What about it?"

"Yeah, that's the one. Similarly, do you remember drinking yourself stupid and hitting on every girl within a five foot range of said bar?" Sam screws up his face at the memory, and Dean smirks because he knows that Sam's mention of it can only mean he had been jealous.

"Good times," Dean responds, lifting his hand from Sam's chest to run it through his hair, eyes closed, his smirk growing into a flat out grin.

"Do you remember trying to impress them by telling them all you were a doctor?" Sam's eyebrows have disappeared, swallowed up by his bangs and Dean finds himself being stared at expectantly.

"Look, Sammy, are you going to tell me where you're fucking going with this or what?" He often uses lies about his profession to pick up chicks. Somehow, it seems like a better idea when he isn't sober, or when he can tell himself he's only doing it to procure information. Now, with Sam's expression straddling the border between condescendingly amused and annoyed, Dean feels like some sort of asshole chump. One who can't pick up chicks without lying through his teeth. He snorts.

"The bartender." Sam says, flatly.

Dean's opens his eyes, lifting his head to stare at Sam with incredulous realization. "The old one? Nasty attitude? Fugly as hell?"

Sam nods and Dean screws up his expression, searching his memory for details. There isn't much. He remembers that the guy had served him his shots and muttered under his breath the whole time. But then, this smoking hot blonde had showed up and who the hell cares about a grizzled old bartender when there was a pretty face with huge set of knockers on the stool beside them? Certainly not Dean; though if he really thinks about it, he also remembers that the guy was really starting to cramp his style. He remembers the way the guy's staring had started to make his skin crawl.

"I talked to some of the victims again. All of told me they'd been to that bar."

"So we found our guy. How do we reverse it or whatever?" Personally, Dean is almost flattered that someone could be so jealous of him that they had unwittingly cursed him. Not that he could blame the guy; Dean was almost jealous of himself some days. He was young and attractive and he'd had practically every girl in that bar crawling all over him. Top that with the guy thinking he was successful, and Dean could _almost_ forgive him for cursing him.

Almost, however, was still no cigar. This guy had been a royal fucking pain in Dean's neck and it was about time for him to kick some ass. "Please tell me it involves some good, old-fashioned violence," he mutters, letting his head fall back against the pillows. Well, maybe he could kick some ass after a nap.

"I already took care of it."

"What?" Dean lifts his head again, brow furrowing as he stares at his brother. Surely he can't be serious. "What the hell did you do? And when?"

"It took all of 15 minutes, Dean," Sam says, turning his head in towards Dean's chest, and Dean feels himself being pulled closer, hugged tighter. "I stopped in at the bar while I was out. I told the guy what was going on."

"You _told_ him?!" But Dean is cut off, one of Sam's fingers finding its way to his lips, Sam's way of silencing him without argument.

"He said he was sorry, and that he didn't want to hurt anyone; just wished his life was different." Sam's words are muffled but still decipherable. Dean rolls his eyes. He's tempted to shake his brother violently and drag himself down to that bar and make that guy _really_ sorry. With his fists. Or maybe a hammer. "So once I explained, the guy let me do the ritual to get rid of it. Problem solved. You'll be fine in a day or so."

"Wait." Dean interjects. He doesn't particularly care about the ritual. In fact, he deliberately avoids the subject. He's surprised Sam hasn't already launched himself into a long-winded, geektastic, brain-melting explanation. And when Sam gets started, he can go for _hours_. Dean knows. Dean has seen him do it; and if Dad hadn't been there to intervene, Dean thinks he probably would have ripped Sammy's vocal cords out before he'd finished high school. What he does care about is brother's admittance that he really did lack anything even remotely akin to common sense. "I'm still stuck on the fact that you just walked in and told this guy he had an evil eye and was causing innocent people misfortune and not only did he buy it, he was _sorry_ about it."

"He didn't _know_, Dean." Sam says, and Dean isn't really sure why his brother is defending this guy. "I mean, he knew something was up. He read the newspapers, recognized the people, but he didn't _know_. And I kinda feel bad for him, you know? He was just old and lonely and bitter."

"How do you know he wasn't lying through his teeth?" Dean still isn't buying it. God, why does his brother have to be so trusting? With all the things they've seen, he doesn't know how Sam can still believe there there's some good in everyone. Seriously, the guy was undoubtedly pulling the wool over Sammy's eyes. No one who was that grumpy caused bad luck to happen without knowing he was doing it.

"He let me get rid of it." Sam states, as if that fact is the end-all, pass go, collect two hundred dollars proof that the guy was genuine. "Even if he did know, that's all that really matters, right? It's gone now, he's harmless."

Dean snorts and grumbles. He's not happy, and he still wants to go kick the guy's ass, but suddenly Sam is no longer in his arms. Instead, he's on top of Dean, straddling his hips, hands planted on either side of Dean's head and his brother is saying _look at me, Dean_ in that tone that means he's not going to take no for an answer.

He looks up, meeting Sam's gaze and immediately swallows whatever else he was about to mutter. There's so much painted in Sam's eyes; worry is easy to pick out, as well as exasperation, but what startles Dean the most, what renders him speechless is the sheer amount of love indicated there. It's so plaintive and obvious, in a naive, unadulterated sort of way; almost to the point of being unsettling and Dean finds that he can't hold his stare, has to turn his eyes down and away.

"Dean," Sam says, and uses one hand to force Dean's chin back up, and he finds himself helplessly lost in that gaze. "Let it go, okay?" Sam's voice is soft, eyebrows dipping and_ dammit_ there's that puppy-dog look that Dean has never, as long as he's been caring for Sammy, been able to resist. "You're safe, and that's all I care about."

There's a long pause in which Dean cannot find any appropriate words. He just nods and lets go - of his anger, his frustration, a breath he hadn't known he's been holding; lets it all go. Sam bends down and brushes his lips against Dean's, just a tickle; two ships passing in the night.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean mutters at length, fingers moving, unbidden, along the length of Sam's arm.

"When did you turn into such a girl?"

Sam scowls and Dean's face lights up with a grin, eyes glittering with a bright life he hasn't felt in such a long time, and just like that, he knows they're okay. They're together and they're okay and that's just about as much as Dean can ask for.


End file.
